


Five In My Bed

by spiced_1990



Category: Spice Girls
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28396401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiced_1990/pseuds/spiced_1990
Summary: You love beds. You love sleeping in them. You love screwing in them. You love in them.
Relationships: Melanie Brown/Geri Halliwell
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Five In My Bed

The room you claim is the larger of the two, a double bed pushed up against one wall and a dresser against the other. You and Mel don’t discuss arrangements, just make yourselves comfortable that first night, topping and tailing it like you used to do with your cousins during a sleepover. 

Melanie goes to sleep facing away from you, but wakes with her cheek against your back, one of her slim, wiry arms around your waist. The first time it happens, she apologises. You roll your eyes, tell her not to be daft, and wrangle her back onto the mattress, peppering her face with kisses. For the next two weeks, the two of you alternate between fighting over the duvet and cuddling under it (it’s not like having another _sister_ exactly, but there’s none of the frisson that you’ve experienced with other female bed partners in the past), and even though you notice the pointed way Geri stares at the single pillow and rumpled sheets a little too long when she comes to wake you up one morning, you don’t say anything. 

Unsurprisingly, Emma likes to cuddle. When you’re watching telly together, she likes to curl up against your side, head resting on your shoulder and hand still on your thigh. You know she sometimes hates being labelled as cute, but it’s the only word for her (you sometimes like pulling her pigtails just to watch the way her eyes flash in brief frustration). On your first trip to America, she knocks on your hotel room door at two in the morning, slightly teary and breathing uneven. You don’t ask any questions, just sleepily pull the covers back and pat the bed. She crawls in and immediately cuddles into you, her face smushed against your chest and one of her legs curled around yours. 

“I love you guys, but I really miss home,” she whispers. You don’t really know what to say, so you just squeeze her a little tighter. 

You and Geri are going through a little bit of a rough patch when you drag all the girls up to Leeds for a visit, and so when she refuses to make eye contact when your Mum is sorting out rooming arrangements, you grab Vic by the arm and enthusiastically steer her to your old childhood bed. “She’s with me,” you say. The redhead glares, and you’re not sure if it’s because she feels proprietary or jealous. You’re not sure you care overly much. Victoria, dressed in silky black pyjamas that you’d look a fool in but makes her look stupidly elegant, marks out a line in the middle of the bed and dares you to cross it at your peril. 

The next morning at breakfast, you loudly proclaim to everyone listening that Victoria had been tempted to become a lesbian because being that close to you in a bed was simply too much for _anyone_ to bear. Your father had grimaced. Geri had stared determinedly at the berries in her bowl.

You’ve slept with Geri so often that it’s become as familiar to you as breathing. She makes snuffly noises in her sleep sometimes and you tease her that she’s going to start snoring before long and you’ll have to kick her out permanently. She always crinkles her nose and sticks her tongue out at those words. Sometimes you take it as an invitation and snog her. Not that you really need an excuse or pretence these days. 

Geri’s room is cramped, full of a mish mosh of odd clothes and used make-up and god knows what else. You stay there after long nights out, usually still sober enough to be aware that waking Mel C at four in the morning won’t end well for anyone. On the weekends, though, you claim the upstairs bedroom for the two of you, relish the way you don’t have to be quiet, not during arguments and not during sex. Mark sometimes comes over, and the three of you spend the evenings on the couch. He never asks but you know he wonders (one Sunday night he returns after going for a piss to find Geri on your lap, fingers curled tightly in your hair and breathing heavily). 

She’s a restless sleeper, admits to you in a moment of vulnerability that she sometimes wakes up because of nightmares about finding her dad dead (“I don’t know how my brother copes,” she says. “I think I’d kill myself.”). You never know what the best thing is to say and so you usually just tuck her against your body, rub small circles on her bare back until she falls back into a deep slumber. 

For all the times the two of you (the five of you) have talked about sex, what the two of you do together in the darkness stays there. She’s needy, demands every last bit of your attention in bed, clings to you afterwards like you’re about to leap out of the sheets and desert her. You’d never tell her, but sometimes you feel that fear too, that eventually she’ll tire of the nameless, formless thing you have, seek out the relationship she aspires to. 

It’s late on an overcast, dreary Saturday afternoon when the words spill out, unintentional and casual like she says them every day. She thinks you’re asleep, her hand gentle on the curve of your hip as you lay on your stomach in the middle of the bed you’re sharing. “I think I could love you.” 

Mark comes over the next day, and you ask him to fuck you from behind so you don’t have to look him in the eyes. You don’t bother closing your bedroom door, and when you go downstairs for a glass of water at four in the morning after another round, Geri’s sitting on the kitchen bench, swinging her legs, calmly drinking tea and flicking breadcrumbs onto the floor.

“If I wasn’t already awake, those last few minutes might’ve done it,” she says, the corner of her mouth in some kind of twisted facsimile of a smile. “Sometimes I think you do that on purpose.”

You swallow down the words you’re tempted to say (it’s not all about you, at least he’ll go down on me, it’s not my fault that you don’t have a boyfriend) and pour out another glass for Mark. She’s sitting on the very edge of the countertop, watching you intently, knuckles white where she’s holding her cup. 

“Sweet dreams, darling.”

Geri’s door is locked for the next three nights, and when you climb into bed with her again the following weekend, you can smell someone else on the (your) pillow.


End file.
